The House of Habsburg
by The Goliath Beetle
Summary: "It was duty. A political marriage. Roderich knows this. (But he still got emotionally involved.)" Past Spain/Austria, Historical!Hetalia, light mentions of AusHun. Rated for sexual situations. ONESHOT.


It is duty. A political marriage. Roderich knows this.

Their bosses have been planning this secret treaty of Oñate for a while now, but this is the first time the personifications have been involved. This is the first time they've been told of their jobs.

A marriage. To Spain.

Their first meeting before the wedding bells ring.

Personifications, the bosses know, have no concept of sexuality. Because they symbolise the people of the whole country, and all nations have a homosexual population. Personifications have been around long before the Habsburgs, and they'll be around long after the Habsburgs. Gender, sex, these things are irrelevant. Between them, a marriage is merely a contract. A treaty. An agreement. Emotions never, ever come into the picture.

Despite that, Spain is wearing his best clothes. They're silk, purple. His hair has been combed, the overgrown locks tied with satin ribbon. He's standing under a tree in the garden, red carnations in his hands. Roderich hasn't put half as much thought into his clothes, though he's dressed as neatly as ever. He doesn't have anything to offer the other man. Nothing but a tight nod of his head.

"Good morning to you, Spain," he says, their gaze locking. The tan skinned male has the most sparkling green eyes. But they're hard and dangerous, too. They're the eyes of a killer obsessed with gold. The Spaniard's bright smile doesn't quite look happy.

"You can call me Antonio," he says, "After all, we are to be married, _si_? Such formalities will not do." He approaches the Austrian, takes his hand—_his tan skin is so calloused, but soft—_and lightly kisses it. Antonio then straightens, giving the flowers to his new fiancé. "These are for you."

_Oh dear, _Roderich thinks, because he's convinced Sp—Antonio is going to fall in love. That is what the Spaniard does. He gets too emotionally invested in things, and then gets hurt. The Habsburg alliance will not last forever. They're nations; they've seen the rise and fall of their leaders all too often. Antonio will get hurt. When this is all over, Antonio _will_ get hurt.

"Thank you," Roderich says, taking the offered flowers in his hands. They're a little damp; they've been freshly plucked. "But it really wasn't necessary."

"Nonsense," Spain grins. "I hate doing anything halfway."

Roderich doesn't know what to say to that. Does he plan on wooing him? There is no need for courtship. This is duty. Emotions needn't be involved. But Antonio's green eyes are like lightning, the way they crackle and sear across everything they see. Roderich is a little more than electrified by them—but in a distant, observant kind of way—and when Antonio suggests a walk around the gardens, the Austrian agrees. He, too, would like to know the man he's marrying.

But the Spaniard is oddly quiet. He stares straight ahead, his eyes thoughtful.

This is an advantageous affair for both of them. And that's really what Roderich is excited about. They walk in total silence. But it isn't awkward. In fact, Roderich feels a heavy sense of resignation, finality. Neither of them _want _to be married to each other. They're not even the slightest bit alike. But these things are irrelevant, of course.

It is duty. A political marriage. Roderich knows this.

* * *

The marriage is a quiet affair. There is only Antonio, Roderich, a serious-faced priest, and the bosses of both countries. The Oñate treaty has been signed by the kings. Now they want to enjoy the wedding ceremony.

Antonio is dressed in another fine suit, Roderich wears something equally expensive. They say their meaningless vows—death _will not_ do them part—this marriage will dissolve long before that. When they kiss, it is soft and pointless. Roderich can tell that Antonio's heart is not in it. The Austrian doesn't want to make physical contact, either. But the Spaniard breaks off and smiles. It's one of his lopsided grins that have become familiar and comforting. Roderich can use some comfort right now.

But he doesn't want it from Antonio. No, that would mean becoming emotionally involved. And Roderich is not stupid enough to do that.

Antonio seems to be, though. When they dance, the Spaniard holds him close. Antonio is, of course, a wonderful dancer. His steps are confident and clear as they spin across the floor. He is leading. Roderich meekly follows. He doesn't want any of this. When the music ends, when night falls, Antonio kisses Roderich once more and takes him to the bedroom.

This is the part Roderich has been dreading. The consummation of the marriage is vital, though, otherwise the treaty is not activated. The Austrian doesn't want to be awkward and hesitant about it, but he is. He doesn't know Antonio well enough to want to sleep with him.

But Antonio is the country of passion. It doesn't take long for his hands to run up and down Roderich's body, powerful and possessive. It doesn't take much for Roderich to moan and gasp in pleasure. Roderich still does not want to bed this man, but if he had no choice (and he doesn't), Antonio is, at least, a good bedfellow.

When it's over, when they fall into the pillows, exhausted and satiated, it is Antonio who draws the lines for this marriage. Surprising. Roderich has been under the impression that he would have to make the boundaries.

But when the Austrian is on the cusp of sleep, he feels the bed on Antonio's side lighten. The Spaniard is not lying down anymore. A lamp is lit, and he can hear Antonio move about the room. The ruffles of clothes on the body. The soft _thud _of boots on floorboards. The Spaniard is leaving.

The thought makes Roderich wake up, just a little bit. But he doesn't open his eyes. All he does is frown slightly, in confusion. _Thud, thud, thud, _Antonio's boots say as the Spaniard walks up to his bed partner. And now, Roderich is sure, Antonio is looming over him.

The country of Spain bends, giving a soft kiss to Roderich's sweaty forehead. "_Ahora me voy. Espero que esta noche fue tan maravilloso para ti como lo fue para mí._"

Roderich doesn't know that much Spanish, but there's no doubt about one thing. Antonio has made it perfectly clear. The kisses, the rings, the sex, it is all a part of his _job_. Of course. He is a personification, after all. He doesn't want to do this, but he needs what his boss will get out of his treaty.

It is duty. A political marriage. Roderich knows this.

So does Antonio.

* * *

When things are good, they're great. The treaty is working fantastically, and Roderich loves the power he's receiving. Antonio, too, is benefitting. On the surface, Oñate is a great idea.

On the surface.

They keep up appearances, whenever they have to. Luckily, they don't live under the same roof. They wouldn't have survived if they had, treaty or not. But during formal dinners, parties, political discussions and the like, Antonio and Roderich sit next to each other. They smile, they nod, they agree. But there is no physical contact.

Antonio doesn't make the effort. He doesn't hold Roderich's hand, doesn't hug or kiss him. There's definitely no more sex. That was only a one-night thing. (_A sacrifice on both their parts.)_ It unnerves Roderich to no end.

When Antonio brings Romano over one day, the couple leave the two Italies to play on their own. Roderich is in his music room, fingering the keys of his piano, thinking.

Antonio approaches him from behind.

"I know how you look at her."

"Pardon me?" Roderich asks, turning to face his husband.

"Hungary," Antonio says. "Elizabeta."

"Ah." Roderich pretends to dust his sleeves. "I wouldn't be unfaithful to you. That is not how the Habsburgs work."

Antonio sighs, and his gaze holds no anger. Just resignation. He looks tired. (Well, he would. His monarchy is starting to fail.) "The Habsburgs?" he says, and his smile is weak, but good-natured. "Do they work at all?"

And Roderich knows he's not talking about the union of their kings, but the union of _each other_.

"…I'm afraid they don't."

"_Si,_" Antonio says, after a long moment. "I agree."

When Antonio leaves by the end of that day, Roderich feels his heart sink. Instinctively, he knows that this will be their last meeting as husbands. Things are about to change for the worse.

But that shouldn't matter.

It is duty. A political marriage. Roderich knows this.

(But it still bothers him.)

* * *

It has happened. Spain's Charles II has died. And now, Europe has turned over its head.

When Roderich first hears of this, he drops everything and rushes to his husband's bedside. Antonio is extremely weak, with a raging fever and a ragged, painful cough. He's been sick for a while now. His economy has been stagnant, his people are hungry, his control over his territories is weakening. Now that Charles II is gone, his condition is more precarious than ever.

"I'm here," Roderich says, kneeling beside him and taking his hand. "My country will carry your burden." The Dutch Republic, England and Portugal have also agreed; Spain's new king should be an Austrian Habsburg.

But then the bedroom door opens, and France walks in. In his hands he carries a tray of tomato soup and a bottle of medicine. When he looks at Roderich, it is with mild surprise, and then, amusement.

"Till death do us part," France says, his voice washing over an unconscious Antonio, and stabbing Roderich in the heart. "Charles II is gone. Death has done you part."

"What are you saying?" Roderich snaps, because Antonio is sick, and this is really no time to be talking about wedding vows.

Francis sneers at him. "Antonio's next king will be a Bourbon."

And that is when Roderich realises that the War of Spanish Succession has begun.

It shouldn't come as such a painful jolt.

It was duty. A political marriage. Roderich knew this.

(But he _still _got emotionally involved.)

* * *

It doesn't take long for Austria's own Habsburg line to stumble. And honestly, Roderich is not surprised when Spain (now a Bourbon) enters the war to take back what was once his. After Charles II's death, Roderich had taken Romano away from Spain.

Antonio wanted him back.

(Is he allowed to call Spain 'Antonio'? They're no longer married…)

Prussia, Spain and France. Silesia is taken, and though Roderich knows he needs to care about that a little more, he's quite shocked at Anto—Spain's aggressiveness in his Italian campaigns.

He fights without mercy. And when Roderich is forced to sit for negotiations at Turin, Spain's eyes are green, hard, cold, and dead.

"I want Italy," he declares his voice as dangerous as the edge of a knife.

"Which one?" Roderich asks.

"Both."

The Austrian side collectively swallows.

But Roderich meets the tanned man's gaze. "Antonio…" he begins.

There is a cruel glint in those green eyes. "It's _Spain _to you."

Once more, Roderich catches himself thinking.

It was duty. A political marriage. Roderich has always, _always_ known this.

Clearly, there was no doubt in Spain's mind either.

* * *

_2014_

* * *

Roderich shakes himself out of idle reminiscing. England is talking about his economy. Roderich tries to listen. These things are important. He picks up his pen and paper, all set to take notes.

But his attention is stolen once again by Spain, who is whispering sweet nothings into Romano's ear. The Italian, now all grown up, is turning violent shades of red, making Spain laugh. Hmm, Spain never laughed during the Habsburg marriage. He would smile, but Spain always smiled. His eyes were not that old toxic green that they used to be. He looks happier. So much happier.

He belongs with Romano, Roderich concludes, and this epiphany sobers him. He's not _upset _about it. Times have changed, and they've both moved on. The thought only makes him avert his eyes.

He looks at Elizabeta instead.

Roderich has had a lot of political marriages. But he and Elizabeta were ripped apart from each other in 1918, and he isn't quite moved on from _that. _His country may have, but as a human personification, he still longs for her.

She must have felt him staring, because she looks up from her notes, and smiles at him from across the table. He blushes, just a little.

When he looks back at Spain, Romano is laughing as well.

His stomach flips uncomfortably, and he gazes right back at Elizabeta, who is running an idle hand through her hazel hair.

It had been duty. Political marriages. Roderich had known this.

The Austrian sighs.

But the age of such unions has long since passed.

(He's still emotionally involved, though.)

* * *

**A/N: **_**Ahora me voy. Espero que esta noche fue tan maravilloso para ti como lo fue para mí = I am going now. I hope tonight was as wonderful for you as it was for me.**_

**I had to write this, because Spain/Austria is one of the few canon pairings in this fandom, and quite frankly, I find them fascinating. As a couple, I don't think they would have worked out. Their personalities are too different, and at that time, Spain was still a pirate. The Habsburg union was beneficial to both Austria and Spain, but it didn't end well for either of them. And I just had to explore this. **

**I've tried to make this more-or-less historically accurate, though I've added my own touch here and there. **

**I hope you enjoyed this. Thanks for reading. Please review! **


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